


The White Wolf

by milgrom



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen, non-dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milgrom/pseuds/milgrom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vilkas and a non-Dragonborn Wood Elf do not get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In his dreams he stood at the gates of Sovngarde, the heavy iron closed shut to his passage. He would watch the others inside, drinking and reveling and the sight would often be too much to bear. Then he would hear the call, the same he heard in waking life, cold and raw, animistic and cruel – the call of the wolf. Taking steps would always feel heavy, but he would turn and see it – the waiting beast, pale as snow and red eyes like a funeral pyre. It never moved, only watched, stood vigil to the hunting grounds where he was doomed to spend eternity.

“What shall I do?” He would ask, but the wolf never spoke, never wavered save for the eyes. They were smoke; part of it and part of the air, tendrils and wisps that shone in the heavenly lights. They were sadness made physical, he knew, all that had passed within its sights and were turned away stood reflected in the deep crimson pools. She, he knew it to be female, a great matron of Hircine who guided those who had been refused Shor’s Great Hall. She was beautiful, melancholy and righteous in her being. 

“Where will I go?” And again the wolf simply watched unmoved. He would turn, see the gate, hear his brothers howl against the blood-stained moon. Its eyes followed his trembling, marked every part of his features that fell so quickly to despair. It fed on it and he felt it, consuming him, traversing his skin and veins, taking it all. 

“What will happen to the others?” The wolf would huff, steam coming from its black nose. His concern for his kin was paramount. He would gladly run in the harsh forests for all eternity, tromping amid the mist and cold, feeling only that for all of time if it would spare the young ones. Vilkas and Farkas, little pups as they were, Aela too, the stalwart woman who had never known girlhood like the rest. Skjor would guide them, Kodlak knew he would should he fail them in the end.

“Are we truly cursed?” Desperate he made a step toward the beast, fear cursory on his skin. But the creature did not move, even when he reached out to touch its fur. It was soft and cold to touch, like freshly fallen snow. The beast, the she-wolf would look upon him and her eyes would close in content.

That was when he woke, sounds from above in the main hall fluttering down through the floorboards. The face of the white wolf stuck in his mind as he dressed and splashed cold water over his face. Its red eyes should have been terrible, frightening, but they were not. They saw more than he knew, the secrets of the hallowed afterlife contained in its sight. It was an omen, a foreshadowing of the doom he had inflicted upon his children.

“Harbinger?” Vilkas, somber and quiet without sound to his heavy boots, knocked on his door.

“Come, break your fast here. What is on your mind?” Tilma had set his meal of mashed corn and toasted bread in the small parlor and there was enough for a second or third – he would have to raise her wages for her forethought.

The boy sat, picking idly at the heel of bread. Normally, Vilkas and his twin were ferocious eaters, never wasting morsel or crumb. But this day, it was different. So much in the way the boy's eyes sunk to the floor and the practiced, slow movements in which he ate. It was suppression, of the blood and appetite that burned so fervently through them all.

“I can still feel it. It is becoming harder and harder each day. Farkas and I … It is difficult to resist.” The boy spoke with shame laden in his tone. Kodlak pushed aside his meal to look on him, registering the calm veneer crackling with every night passed. “The others … they do not seem willing.”

“You know as well as I that they see a blessing where we see a curse. They are capable of deciding which side of the road they will cross.” Skjor and Aela were loyal to the cause, but not to the abstinence Kodlak had proposed. Only the brothers had accepted his call, and they had done so amiably. But the others … Vilkas was not wrong when he said they are unwilling.

“And what of the end Harbinger? To be without our brothers and sisters –” The boy turned and Kodlak followed his eyes on the girl come wandering to his quarters. It was early in the day, far too early for contracts or visitors and yet, there she was.

A poorly healed scar mottled the right side of her face, rendering the corner of her mouth into a perceived sneer and her black hair, the very color of midnight, hung in loosely bound braids tied on the top of her head. She wore no expression, nor any sheepishness for having walked in on a private conversation. She had black eyes, not uncommon among the wood elves, but the color swirled and churned of its own volition. They were hot coals, smouldering on her stoic face.

“You are … Kodlak White-Mane?” She spoke, the common tongue sounded odd from her lips, as though speaking were not a natural thing. She had a shadow of an accent in her speech, and the words were slightly garbled but she made an obvious effort to think over her words.

“Yes child, and you –”

“I am called Dominil.” The girl bowed prettily in old leathers that creaked with the movement.

“And what is it I can help you with, Dominil?”

“I wish to join you.” Her voice was more of a purr than an accent and those void eyes glistened in the low light.

“You … And who are you?” Vilkas spoke with a heated tongue, the tone made Kodlak's eyes narrow and whip to face him. He matched the Harbinger's warning eye; “I have not even heard of this stranger. Is this truly the best time to add to our ranks?”

“There are beds to be filled Vilkas. And not just the famous seek us out, sometimes it is those seeking their fame.”

“I seek no fame, Ser White-Mane.” The girl spoke again, defiance in her odd accent. It preluded to an angry, vengeful fire that the Circle shared.

“What do you seek?”

“An end.” Her cryptic words were met with sadness in her eyes. Those charred orbs searched him, begged him to see what her purpose was. She did not know, anymore than he, but the wolf in his dreams howled when she spoke. It was bells, a warning, an omen to the end.

“Vilkas, take her to the yard. Test her.” The boy did not protest though he walked briskly enough ahead that she struggled to keep up.


	2. Chapter 2

He found it hard to keep pace. She moved with easy grace despite the cumbersome training weapons he provided -- a pair of iron daggers, blunted and pocked from years of hard use. She turned them in her hands like they were nothing, as though she had them melded to her hands. His greatsword crashed against them, the ting of metal and sharp scent of sweat and pounding breath between them. He could not break her line. And all the while she wore no scowl, no hint of a grin, just a pair of deep set eyes that followed his every move. 

“You have done nothing but block my attacks.” He grunted as their blades intertwined. “Take a swing, girl. Show me.” 

He pulled back, turning his wrist and proffering his blade point in her direction. She crouched, taking in his challenge with a shake of hair from her eyes. The battle swam through him, churning his gut and tightening his hands on the hilt of his sword. She took a step, her worn leathers the only sound of movement. In a blinding flash she struck, throwing her arms out in a wide arc that he nearly missed with his own sword. The strength behind her blow sunk him slightly into the mud but he held his resolve. 

She shook out her hair, little bits of road dust and sweat circling her head. Black eyes flashed anger and she huffed, an entirely inhuman sound from the back of her throat. She rolled her shoulders impatiently and launched into a flurry of steel and stunted breathing. 

She came again and again, the fury turning all her muscles taut. She moved faster than anyone he had ever seen and he was having trouble keeping up. She came so hard on the attack he could do nothing but make feeble attempts at keeping her at bay. The beast lingering in his blood was a howling mess, pacing in his head and begging to be let out. It was as though she was challenging that, his passenger, his ever rueful companion to break his cage. 

“Yield,” she hissed as she kept on her assault. Each hit broke hard against his plate and blade, creating new notches for Eorlund to bang out later. But he kept pace, digging in his heels, waiting for her to exhaust herself with this battle madness. 

They sprung apart, her little daggers and his lumbering steel came undone with a shower of sparks. Each eyed the other with ferocity, with a hunger that threatened to break his resolve. She was not tired, not as he was, despite how much she had exerted herself. She was so skinny, too skinny to match the raw power that drove her. He wondered how such a small, seemingly starving little thing could have such a substantial resolve. 

“ _Jous uns’aa dosst tril, lotha kal’daka_.” Her native tongue was harsh upon his ears. He did not know if it was a threat or question. She was already in an offensive crouch, waiting for a break in his form. 

“I do not understand,” he breathed, with more effort than he realized. His armor felt tight on his chest, likely a result of the dents she so easily provided. 

Rather than speak again she turned on her right foot and kicked out. He was on his back before his arm could come down on a swing. Warm weight fell upon his chest and the cold metal bite, familiar as it was, of steel pressed into his neck. His head swam and his vision split into thirds. Her face was above him, black eyes and sharp teeth. 

“Yield,” she hissed and clutched at her side. Her hands shook slightly, the only betrayer to injury and Vilkas could smell fresh blood. She shut her eyes against the torrent of pain that was barreling through her bones. Still though, she held the little blunted dagger against the soft skin of his throat, determined to prove she had won. 

“You are injured.” He attempted to move his arms but her knees came down hard on his elbows, her brow thrumming with the effort. 

“ _Yield._ ” She pressed, grinding her teeth. 

“You need tending,” her eyes gave warning but the effect was lost as she lost consciousness and slipped from him. Her coal dark hair surrounded her head like a halo and her chest rose and fell much too fast for normal breathing.


End file.
